The morning is cool, unsurprisingly. Almost a bit too perfect for March, Jeremy thinks, as a crisp breeze wafts through his light hair. It nearly helped relax him.

They're both on their bikes, riding down sleepy streets and barren walkways, all of which are about as awake as the rising sun peeking over Utah's mountain tops.

Despite the fact that they're going to Jeremy's house, Michael's leading the way, which is fine by him, since it gives the blond a chance to try and get a better look at his friend's bare skin.

Ok, that sounded weird.

It was just… after that ah… memorable morning experience (which Jeremy futilely promised himself he wouldn't overanalyze), he couldn't get the red mark he saw last night out from his head.

Jeremy knew there was no way Michael would let him see it if he asked, or probably even admit to any sort of blemish on his skin. It was just one of the many things about the Afton that drove Jeremy insane. He still hadn't forgotten about how much Mike fucked up both his hands, one of which because of his stupid suggestion.

He should have never recommended going to that stupid, rundown shack just to help relieve stress from a pissed-off Brit. The place had been his great-something grandparents' house. And if his parents found out, they would probably… ok, not actually kill him, or even get that mad, like he heard other kids claim with their own; however, he knew they would most likely give that whole "I'm Not Mad, Just Disappointed" speech, which would undeniably cut deeper than any angry lecture.

So was it wrong of Jeremy to think of himself as a decently patient individual? Honestly, probably not, since he'd just admitted to getting fed up with his friend's behavior… but Jeremy has also been putting up with Mike's standoffish attitude without saying much for years now, and he truly didn't know how much more he could take, especially since the Afton was now hurting himself in order to deal with whatever fucked up emotions were going through his thick skull.

Though the thought embarrassed him to no end, in a way, Jeremy sort of viewed his friend as this broken, little teacup of boiling anger; always trying to hide the chips and cracks and stains acquired through years of an unforgiving family life.

Now, however, it seemed Mike was trying to hide how completely shattered he really was from onlookers peering inside the glass case to try assessing the damage.

People like Jeremy Fitzgerald.

Jeremy wanted to fix those cracks, find the pieces Mike lost all those years ago, and carefully put them back together. If he just knew what Mike was going through, then maybe he could actually help, instead of standing by and feeling like a useless friend.

But as stated, Michael was currently wearing a jacket, so it wasn't like Jeremy could get a good look at his bare skin, thus coming to that "Aha!" moment where he would then effortlessly piece together what exactly about last night the Afton was keeping silent.

Though the thought of how exactly the (potential, potential Jeremy) injury came to be in the first place is what terrified him the most.

"Ey," an annoyed voice called out, snapping Jeremy out from his thoughts.

"I hope you know we're just about at your house, Fitzgerald."

"Sorry," he mumbled without really thinking.

The blond swore he could actually hear Mike's eye roll.

"For the last time, that bullshit. What're you even daydreamin' about, hm?" he asked in a surprisingly laidback tone. "Some girl?"

Everything in the blond's mind slammed straight into a brick wall. Jeremy barely managed to keep himself from tumbling off his seat and straightening himself out just as Mike glanced back at him with an expected eyebrow raised.

"Ah…" He then felt a small furnace rise to his cheeks despite the cool air blowing against them. His tongue suddenly felt swollen, so the blond shrugged, refusing to look the brunette in the eye, though he was sure a prominent blush dusted his cheeks. "No, not really."

Mike's lips simply curve into a knowing smirk.

"Sure."

Jeremy feels very conflicted with feeling happy that despite whatever happened last night, Mike just genuinely smiled, or miserably dejected he'd seemed pleased with the thought of the blond having a female crush.

Mentally slapping himself, Jeremy immediately chooses the former.

A few minutes went by before he pulled the brakes on his bike, skidding to a stop right next to Mike and his rusted, red bike, where they both now stood in front of a familiar front yard.

Jeremy felt his finger tapping a rapid beat against the handlebars, the image of the red mark reentering his mind.

He awkwardly cleared his throat before speaking, yet that still didn't stop the first word from cracking out like a piano hammered with rusted nails.

"Would you, uh… wanna stay or something?" he asked, giving a hopeful glance.

Mike grunted. "Can't. After yesterday, the old man will actually kill me if he finds out I'm gone."

The silence is nothing short of uncomfortable.

Because Jeremy knows his friend is just being hyperbolic. He knows this, but something about the statement automatically makes him want to shield Mike within his coat, and whisk him away from the hellspace that was his home.

But Mike's not helpless, he again reminds himself, but - and as much as he hates the excuse - Jeremy truly can't help it. He didn't know what went on in that house. Mike barely talked about his home life, unless it was to complain about his siblings.

Jeremy always tried to make himself imagine it "wasn't that bad." Surely it couldn't be after his mother left. That maybe Mike's angst came more from moving from Great Britain to a small, desert town in Mormon Utah.

But last night had shattered that assumption. He thought back to how broken - truly defeated - the Afton teen had been, and yes, that red mark on his back. That one little mark, currently sending Jeremy into an uncontrollable frenzy of paranoia. Jeremy doesn't want to think about the worst possible reason why it'd been there, but his mind currently allows only the worst possible options.

He feels his pulse rapid pick-up speed, the other hand squeezing the bike's handlebar so hard, barely any blood is flowing through. Jeremy can feel the sweat other than earlier beading down his neck.

It's a hand on his back that pulls him back to reality.

Jeremy flinches, only to see - duh - it's his friend.

Mike's concerned and daresay soft stare instantly punctured its way past the blond's mental wall.

"You alright there, mate?"

God, I need my medication. Maybe if he'd actually taken it with him yesterday his state of mind wouldn't feel so haywire. Oh well, it's not exactly what he's focused on at the moment. He hates how Mike doesn't want to address it, hates how scared he, Jeremy Fitzgerald feels about addressing it.

Jeremy just shakes his head, fingers still drumming mercilessly, if not more now.

Well, it's now or never.

"Can we just… stop beating around the bush about what went down last night?."

To Jeremy's surprise, Mike doesn't respond, seeming frozen in silence. No snappy retort, no scoff, or even a dismal. In fact, he looks quite taken aback for a second, as if he truly believed he'd swept last night's events under the rug so well, Jeremy would never be able to dig them out.

Well this time's different.

But - of course - it didn't take long for the Afton's dark brows to furrow, frown growing into one of displeasure, like he'd swallowed something sour. His eyes then glared accusingly. Mike slowly released his hand from Jeremy's shoulder, kicking his bike stand down, then stepping off, now fully facing him.

"Spit it out," he snarled with a stone-faced expression despite his hostile tone. Mike must know the blond isn't going to drop it, nor is he going to let Mike avoid what's inevitable. Now he just seems to have a stronger desire to get it over with.

Jeremy knows this probably isn't going to end in a hug of understanding and reconciliation (though he can dream) as he takes his own sweet time dramatically stepping off. Jeremy takes in a large mental gulp before also staring at his friend straight in the eye, hoping he appears just as austere since Jeremy doesn't exactly feel courageous at the moment.

Nevertheless, he decides to cut to the chase.

"I'm concerned about your living situation."

Mike's immediate reply is a roll of the eyes and a derisive scoff, almost seeming underwhelmed by Jeremy's proclamation, like he'd been expecting some earth-shattering revelation.

"Really? That's it? Are you a school counselor now? Gonna tell me I 'act out' with a pocket knife from a 'need to be noticed' by a dad who's working hard to keep me fed?"

A flare sizzled in his chest.

"I'm serious."

"Hm. Yeah. I know, which is the problem, dumbass, because what goes on in my house isn't your business."

"Maybe not, but I mean - shit Mike - I heard your dad, ok?"

Mike's jaw clenched, lips pursing as his mouth snapped shut. That little-known fact had clearly hit a sore spot; nevertheless, the blond pressed on.

"I'm not as stupid as you might think, ok? And despite my parents never showing me a drop of it, I know what alcohol is, and I can tell when someone's drunk. And when someone's angrily drunk."

Mike didn't reply, so Jeremy took in another brave breath and kept talking.

"And dude, that… that scared me, alright? He was pounding on your brother's door like… like… I don't know - he was gonna beat him!"

Another scoff followed immediately. "Tch. He wouldn't do that to Chris."

Jeremy's mouth opens, argument ready, and —

Wait a goddamn minute.

He pauses.

He replays the words in his head.

Makes sure he actually heard the phrasing right.

It clicks.

He locks his eyes dead-onto Mike.

Voice barely above a whisper.

"Does he hit you?"

A single beat of nothing passes by.

Mike doesn't answer. He knew he slipped up, Jeremy could see it.

"What?" he finally spat out instead when seeing the way Jeremy was staring, as if the question had come from nowhere.

"Oh my god, Mike! Your dad!" It was all starting to make sense now. The defeat, the fear, the sheer emptiness. The scream. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

Or had he and he'd just been in denial? Because there was no way a single father would do that after —

"After your mom left… I… oh my god... I never saw bruises on you but… after last night… a-and the mark on your back - yeah, I saw it," he confirmed before Mike could deny that tidbit.

Michael was now staring at him as if Jeremy claimed he found a cure for world hunger.

"When did you suddenly grow a pair?"

"Don't dodge the damn question! Dude, this - god, he… he hit you last night, didn't he?" Jeremy's mind and nerves now felt as though they'd been overstimulated beyond comprehension. He's literally about to pull all his hair out, but he has to think. The mark had been red and swollen, not a bruise, so…

Oh.

"Oh my god…" he says for the millionth time, in a horrified yet quiet tone. "He actually... he really…" The blond can't bring himself to finish the sentence that would've involved William and a leather strap.

Mike, however, doesn't give him a chance to finish the thought.

"So?"

Jeremy did a double-take, head snapping back up.

He gapes.

Wha… what the hell was this? Jeremy had been expecting complete and utter denial of anything bad going on, but right now, Mike was fixating on him with an almost bored expression, slouching back with his hands in his pockets, as if waiting for a repetitive conversation about the weather to be over so he could go home.

"So? So?! This is textbook physical abuse! Emotional too, probably. You — you can't live there!"

Mike stared.

Then Mike…

Michael giggled.

He laughed.

Mike had the gull to actually sneer, lips curving into an obnoxiously upwards grin. Like it's all some kind of sick, twisted ploy, which pisses off Jeremy in a way he didn't know he could get angry.

"Why… Mike, this isn't a joke!"

He simply shakes his head, calming himself down with light snickers. And it's almost scary how easily and quickly Mike is able to go from uncontrollable chuckling, back to staring the blond down as they're in some kind of stand-off over territory, all signs of amusement gone.

"Will you getover your bullshit 'savior complex'?"

"What?"

He groans. "Bloody fucking hell Fitzgerald... this is actually happening..." Mike then shook his head again, like a disappointed parent who has to go over the rules twice, still gazing at Jeremy with an irritated yet now almost wounded expression.

"You seriously don't realize how fucking easy that is for someone like you to say?"

"What do you — wait, no. No. Don't derail this conversation. We're talking about you, not me."

Mike's voice began rising. "Yeah, well, I don't really see what's there to talk about."

Jeremy was glad for the barren street of their sleepy neighborhood mainly filled with older couples, because he really didn't want anyone to be witnessing their current clash. Though, he wasn't sure if either of them would be able to keep their voices at a volume that wouldn't wake a nearby light sleeper.

"Dude!" Jeremy has his hands on Mike's shoulders, ready to actually attempt literally shaking some sense into him. "I— don't you get it? You need to leave, get child services, or - or, something! God, I should've called the cops yesterday! I should've -"

"First of all, get your bony fingers off me," he growls, shoving them off with his shoulders. "Second, wow, Jeremy. Wow. What an epiphany. I have just been... so incredibly blind to never think of it before your brilliant mind! I mean, I'm just gobsmacked right now— I can't believe I never thought about getting away from my neglectful, drunk of a father!"

Mike then began to clap; a slow, melancholy clap in the most derisive way possible.

"Really. Brav-fucking-o."

Jeremy stood there mouth hanging open, yet speechless, and completely aghast.

"What… what is wrong with you? This - this isn't a joke! This is your life! Your health! I can't just stand by while this is happening!"

He folded his arms. "I think you may want to polish off that pearly white armor of yours before you step off your high horse."

Jeremy felt so angry now that he was on the verge of tears. Every part of him was rattling with a terrible mix of stress, anger, and anxiety, once again reminding Jeremy how it's been too long since he took his medication.

But god damn it - as long as oxygen flowed through his bloodstream, this Fitzgerald would continue forward.

"You think I'm concerned about your dad... beating you - just so… what? I'll feel good about myself?"

That's honestly what you think of me? Jeremy thinks but doesn't say, because he needs to get back onto the topic that is his friend's abuse.

Mike just groans, voice growing quieter, as if now only scared of who could hear them. "Ok, Jeremy. Ok. Fine. Let's play your damn Michael Afton paradise game, alright? I go to the police, show them the fucking marks on my back, my dad gets arrested. Happiest fucking day of my life, apparently." He continued to step forward, eyes devoid of nothing but a challenge.

"What then though? Huh?"

"I-"

Mike's interruption came out in a low, threatening growl, devoid of any drop of compromise, now face-to-face with the blond as he jabbed a finger point-blank upon Jeremy's chest.

" 'Cause I'll tell you this, you little pillock."

Despite their height difference, Mike was able to size him up pretty well, seeming bigger than he actually was. Yet all Jeremy could focus on were the dark shadows, starkly cast under his eye as the morning sun's light struck his face. It all made him seem so much frailer than his stance suggested.

"My life might seem like a living shithole to your American Dream family, but it's not that bad. Really."

Was he trying to convince Jeremy, or himself?

"Either way, it's nothing for you to stick your nose in. And stop looking like this is somehow the biggest shock of your life. I'm, one - not going to risk going through the hellhole that's foster care as a teenager, two — I'm not leaving while my sister is fucking missing, and three - the pathetic twat I have as a brother wouldn't last two days out on his own. So yeah. I hate it. Big whoop, but it's a house with water and food. At the end of the day, how I feel doesn't matter because I have nowhere else to go. Neither does Chris. Maybe I could skim by until I'm eighteen, but he can't handle that."

Mike finally stopped talking. He was standing tall, and defiantly, continuing to stare Jeremy down with those shadowed eyes, as if daring Jeremy to even think about arguing.

My god… he… he really believes what he's saying.

Jeremy felt tears blinking in the back of his eyes, ready to burst. He wasn't ever good at staying angry for too long. It was just too exhausting, and he never understood how Mike managed it pretty much every single day.

"Mike," he finally whispered, not even sure if his friend could hear him. But the brunette frowned in recognition, as if wondering what Jeremy could possibly say to change his mind.

"He's hurting you."

Truly, a compelling argument, yet between the two of them, it somehow spoke a thousand words. There was no beating around the bush. No justifying it, no excuse, no making it ok. The morality was simple, and simply wrong.

Mike's face was devoid of any emotion.

"Tch." He looked away. "So what're you gonna do now, huh?" his voice hardened, as if issuing another challenge. "Report him?"

Jeremy opened his mouth to respond but Mike continued, still looking away with that bored expression.

"Then don't think I'm afraid to fight you just 'cause you're my friend."

He then shrugged.

"But I guess it's good to know you wouldn't care if I left."

Jeremy stares.

He hadn't just heard that...

"Guess I wouldn't be missing much."

...

So.

If a knife.

Hadn't been stabbed point-blank through his heart before.

If this conversation hadn't sliced through every patient vessel Jeremy thought he had under control.

If the searing metal wasn't already puncturing every personal vital.

Mike had just twisted the blade without breaking eye contact.

That was it.

That was it.

Jeremy screamed.

"That is not fair and you know it!"

Yes, screamed, and now he was the one up in the other's face, because he couldn't believe Mike had uttered those words, made such an accusation. It hurt, stung more than he could comprehend. Yes, of course Jeremy could be a better friend. He should be a better friend, he thought so every day, and really, should be better at a lot of things. But it was the pure condescending, nonchalantness in Mike's tone which pissed him off. Like Jeremy had been nothing more than a prop.

Had he done nothing all these years?

Mike laughed again, though he was scowling. "Oh, wow, you actually wanna talk about fair now? Newsflash, twat - life isn't fair. Last night wasn't fair, but it happened, and like it or not, that's just my life so fuck off!"

"No!" His fists were clenched and his head pounding. "No Mike! I'm not just gonna fuck off! This isn't something I can just fuck off from!"

The mockery from Mike's face had vanished, leaving only growing outrage.

"You are not about to put my fucking eight-year-old brother in foster care!"

"That doesn't have to be the solution! What about your extended family?"

"Oh - oh fuck that — you don't get to know jack shit about the shitty relatives who want nothing to do with me! I'd rather smash my head through a bed of nails than deal with them!"

"What about -"

"NOBODY FUCKING WANTS ME."

…

"Nobody…" the English boy seethes out through his ragged breaths, bitter as the air drifting past them.

Jeremy feels his head shaking as to say, No - but no words can form.

"Nobody would, and nobody sh…" his voice suddenly catches on itself, sounding close to a sob, yet not a single tear escaped his eyes, as Mike's face remained twisted in torment. Deep blue eyes are glaring at the ground, complexion as red and pained as the wounds seared throughout his body.

Except those wounds will heal.

Jeremy forgets everything. Forgets their arguing, the screaming. He knows he'll think about it excessively for days on end as soon as he's alone with his own mind, and perhaps continue being upset over a particular sentence. That not all is suddenly "alright" - but right now, all Jeremy can acknowledge is the broken boy standing before him. Feelings of good or bad be damned. He feels his body moving on its own as he takes a step forward, arm reaching out to provide condolences -

Only for Mike to completely flinch away.

Jeremy felt one final twist of the burning hot knife

Michael let out a shudder of a breath, like a cornered animal about to run away.

"Bloody, just…" he shakes his head, taking in a hollow breath as he runs a hand through that mess of hair. "I'm not going to talk about this again. You fucking got that?"

No. No, he doesn't. Jeremy can't accept that. Not now.

"I -"

"Jeremy!"

Shit.

Jeremy has zero time to process the banshee cry as his focus is snapped away once he hears the front door slam open, and sees his own mother, curls and all, barrelling in her old robe at an otherworldly speed.

"Mo-"

She nearly manages to tackle the boy to the ground despite already being inches shorter than him, mumbling all kinds of things into his ear, taking absolutely no notice of the other teen.

"Do you have any idea how worried I've been? How close I was to driving over in that terrible storm? What your father had to deal with all night?"

"I… I'm fine, Mom," he attempts to reassure through his scattered thoughts, as well as keep his balance and not fall back on his bike. The words simply feel automatic. "I'm fine. See?"

"Oh, let a mother worry, sweety." She finally stands back, letting out a sigh, though still has his hands clutched into her own. She continued fretting over what felt like the smallest thing as her son kept on claiming he was fine before she finally explained - "I only realized you were here after I heard shouting. My Jeremy! Screaming at the top of his lungs at one of his friends. Care to tell you poor mother what upset her son so much?"

Mike.

Shit on a stick - how long has his mom distracted him for?

When Jeremy turns back, all he's met with is an empty sidewalk. The disappointment is vile. He considers briefly riding after him, but the iron grip locked onto his hands tells him he's not about to go anywhere anytime soon.

Jeremy can't stop the tears from finally pouring down his cheeks.

He hears his mother gasp.

"Oh… oh, sweety…" And before the blond knows it, he's pulled into a hug, one he graciously accepts, burying his face into her shoulder. No words need to be spoken.

It's a decent town and we go to the same school, he tries to reason, through his sobs. Though Jeremy's heart still hasn't slowed, nor his thoughts. He can't avoid me forever.

Not that Jeremy wanted to force himself onto Mike, he quickly concedes. He only wants to get his friend to see the reason. Calmly.

Though he really isn't sure if that's possible with Michael Afton.

"Honey, will you please tell me what's wrong?"

Another question then pops into his head.

Should I tell my parents?

Ye —

I guess it's good to know you wouldn't care if I left.

"It's nothing," he states quickly, refusing to look her in the eye. "He was just…" Jeremy pulled an excuse as fast as he could from his racing mind. He hated, hated lying to his parents, but he didn't see this as something they could help him with, plus the fib itself wasn't much of a lie, though Jeremy already thought he was better at hiding things from his parents than they gave him credit for.

"I didn't really understand what was going on with uh… his sister, a-and how he felt so he just… he got really defensive, and now I just feel pretty bad…"

Jeremy sniffled, speaking quickly through his whimpers.

"C- Can we go inside, please? I, uh… I-I really need to shower and cool off. And um… take my pills..."

She nodded immediately at that last part. He knew it would convince her.

"Ok, sweetheart. Let's get you inside."

Jeremy held back a sigh of relief as they broke their hug and Jeremy grasped his bike, following her inside through the garage. It's one of the many great things about his parents. They hardly ever prodded him. Yes, his mom could sometimes be a mother hen, but overall they trusted him. A lot.

Maybe even a bit too much.

Henry hadn't meant to fall asleep in his office, head laying flat on his endless stacks of papers as if they were pillows, but he'd been exhausted for several days, and it was only a matter of time before all that coffee wore off.

For weeks, William refused to speak with him and do his share of the paperwork or run their restaurant when his shift came up, with Henry needing a break. He couldn't say he'd forgiven his old friend for what he said… or if he ever would... but Henry was willing to put those feelings aside for the sake of the business. William, surprisingly, was not.

It cut Henry a deep level. William was rather blunt, and he knew where to strike people where it hurt most. Of course Henry was aware of this more than anyone, and while this certainly wasn't the duo's first fight, the quarrel definitely stung more than any other. Henry had seen William become especially nasty with his words when aggravated before, but he never expected the charismatic Afton to stoop so low.

And to Henry no less.

So for weeks on end, Henry was forced to deal with the new lawsuit that faced Fredbear's. Some out-of-town woman claimed that their food had given multiple of her children salmonella. When he attempted to call William about the problem, he curtly informed Henry to just "Take it up with insurance." After that, William hardly answered his calls, claiming he was working just as hard in his many meetings of attempting to expand their brand and come up with new products.

While probably right about their insurance handling the problem, and (thank God) the issue most likely wouldn't be taken to court, it didn't help calm the stress and labor that came with running a business, and a growing one at that, yet William was deliberately avoiding him, because of course he was. Though Henry didn't really know if he could speak with Will the same way every again after his venomous words during that disaster of a dinner, a large chunk of him still wanted to at least attempt to talk it out. After all, he'd lost his daughter a mere month ago, and Henry had dealt with that kind of loss before. It unfortunately seemed like the universe was on neither of their sides when it came to loved ones. Amelia was one thing, but Elizabeth was the Afton's entire world, even if he didn't say it.

Henry's dreams formed into a swirling mess of all these thoughts, as the images in his head flashed with different faces and scenes from the Emily's personal life.

It was the shattering of glass that finally woke him up.

Henry awoke with a jolt, nearly jumping straight out of his seat. His eyes darted around widely for the source of his panic. There's a moment of panic when Henry thinks someone had broken in through a window, until he found himself gazing upon the shattered remains of his coffee mug laying across the floor.

Henry sighs and leans back into his chair, dragging an exhausted hand down his face, the other resting on the desk filled with its many to-be-filed papers. He checks his watch. God, nearly opening time. His employees had either forgotten to wake him, didn't care enough to, or maybe a mix of both. And he must've accidentally knocked over the mug in his -

Henry freezes.

Charlotte.

This time, Henry's up as if he chugged down ten cups of straight caffeine from an unbroken mug. Papers go flying and shards are lodged into his shoe. Before the papers drift lazily to the ground that will soak through the sheets with numerous drops of coffee, the Emily has slammed the door behind him.

Henry remembers in school being told time and time again that in a crisis, the worst possible thing to do is panic. He remembers teaching every new employee the same lesson and what to do, especially when it came to children.

Well, Henry has already ascended beyond the meager word that is "panic."

He first dashes to the Puppet and peeks his head in, only to see the useless thing is shut off, then hurriedly begins to check everything - and he meant everything. Under the tables, the bathroom stalls, behind the stage, inside both golden animatronics, outside behind the dumpster, hell - Henry opens and pokes his head into the oven - all while crying his daughter's name.

No reply comes.

Henry doesn't know how he missed the brightly colored green bracelet resting silently on the stage's corner, but as soon as he sees it, his heart sinks to earth's core.

Phone phone phone, he needs a goddamn phone.

He's back in his ruined office, now resembling a potential crime scene and - nope, nope - Henry is not, will not think about the phrase "crime scene."

His hands are trembling so horribly that Henry has to redial three times, and is just one more wrong button away from chucking the useless damn device against the wall, until he finally gets the blaring rings of the telephone calling.

Five rings are produced before a tired, grumpy voice answers.

"What?"

"Is Charlotte with you?"

A pause.

"Henry?"

"Michael, please, Charlotte — Chris — are they both with you?" Henry really needs to stop shaking or else he's going to drop the phone.

"Uh, Chris is here — I brought him home yesterday evening. Last I saw, Charlie was in the back watching the show. Why? Is she —"

He drops the phone, leaving a confused Michael with an empty question, then is outside before he can think. Henry doesn't even bother locking the doors behind him, as one hand is busy nearly pulling out chunks of hair matted down on one side, while the other claws through his sweaty, rumpled dress shirt.

While slamming his car door closed, Henry stabs his key into the ignition, blessedly never dropping the little thing, before the engine finally starts, roaring above the blood in his ears.

Henry slams his foot onto the pedal, mind only on one person, one face, as he zooms towards the station.